Muller, Marcia - [09] There's Something In A Sunday [v 1.0] (htm) (8 page)

I parked my MG under the poplars and went over to the metal-studded wood gate. There was an intercom beside it; I pressed the button. When a static-distorted female voice answered, I identified myself and asked for Vicky. There was a pause and then the voice said, "This is she. I've met you, haven't I? At All Souls?"

"Yes. I think the last time was at our Christmas party."

"God, yes. You're the investigator, the one who supplied the recipe for that sneaky bourbon punch that got us all so drunk."

"Guilty."

"Wait a second, I'll buzz you in. I'm in the main building— the big one at the end of the path. The door's open, just let yourself in."

The buzzer sounded momentarily, and I pushed the gate. It swung open onto a wide flagstone path that was flanked by eucalypti. The trees' bark was peeling in great ragged, curled strips; their leaves shimmered silver when rustled by the light breeze. I couldn't believe how quiet and otherworldly it was on this side of the wall.

I followed the path around its curve. Ahead of me stood the largest castle: a one-story building with towers on either end.

From this vantage point it looked less impressive than it did when its turrets were viewed from the street; they were too tall, and the middle section too squat, a little out of proportion. A wooden door with metal studding similar to the gate's was set in a protruding entry area; I went up to it, knocked, and stepped inside.

The entryway was slate floored, and from there two steps led down into a living room. I hadn't envisioned what this castle might look like inside, but had I, this wouldn't have been it. The room was ultramodern in decor, and an entire wall of glass overlooked the formal garden that separated it from two of the other castles. The furniture was white and tan with accents of bright green, made of metal and glass and leather, with many sharp angles and—to my eyes—outlandish shapes. The carpet was chocolate brown, the kind that shows every speck of dirt. This one was showing it, too: peanut shells littered the floor in front of the couch; ashes formed a blurred semicircle by the fireplace; near one corner was something that looked like sawdust—until I noticed the scratching post. Then I recognized it as catnip and spotted the creature that had been indulging—a fat Siamese curled up in a cat-drunken stupor at the base of the post. The cat was so out of it that it had pushed its muzzle into the deep pile of the carpet; their colors matched perfectly. In the comer behind the post stood a three-foot stack of folded white paper bags. An open one perched atop the others; red lettering on it said, I DID MY SHOPPING AT A NEIGHBORHOOD BUSINESS'

"Sharon, it's good to see you again!"

It was Vicky Cushman's voice, coming from an archway next to the fireplace. I turned and received yet another surprise.

Vicky no longer looked the cute cheerleader. Her waist-length blond hair had been cropped and permed, but it was a bad perm—too limp and long—and it looked like it hadn't been washed recently. She'd lost weight, too, and it made her bony, her face too drawn. She wore a cotton dress in a dusty rose color; its bodice was held together with a safety pin in place of the top button, and it showed various unidentifiable stains. The dress's hem was ripped out in the rear, so it hung almost to her bare heels. Vicky's voice, however, was as buoyant and warm as I remembered it. I supposed I'd just caught her at a bad time.

I said, "It's good to see you, too. But I shouldn't have dropped by without calling."

"Nonsense." She went to the couch, which was buried in a drift of newspapers, pushed them to the floor on top of the peanut shells, and motioned for me to sit. "It's a mess, I know it is, but I've got a heavy schedule, and the goddamned maid didn't show, and the kids are just back from my mom's— listen, do you want a drink? Or a joint? Which is it you do—alcohol or dope? Oh yes, I remember—you made the punch."

I assumed she was babbling because she was embarrassed at being caught in such a state. I said, "Actually, I didn't make it. I gave the recipe to Hank Zahn, and he doubled all the dangerous ingredients. But if you have some white wine, I'd love a glass."

"Me, too. I've been on the phone all day. We're organizing, you probably read it in the
Chron
. UC has got to be stopped, they're eating this neighborhood alive. And then I'm in on the deal about the way they're managing the project where Poly High School used to be, as well as the fight against the chain stores." She waved her hand at the stack of red and white shopping bags. "They're our latest gimmick, just came from the printer today. The local merchants will be giving them out. I'll get our drinks, be right back. Just relax, enjoy."

She disappeared through the archway from which she'd entered. Looking over there, I guessed from the tile floor that it was the kitchen. When I glanced at the fireplace across from me, the assumption proved correct: it was one of those two-sided hearths, opening into both rooms, and behind it I glimpsed part of a dining table and chairs.

I looked around me. In spite of its untidiness, this was a beautiful room. What would it be like, I wondered, to own such a space? How would it feel to be Vicky—a woman who didn't have to go out to a job, with a maid who came in (usually) to vacuum up the peanut shells and catnip? A woman who was supported by a successful husband and was able to indulge in whatever causes interested her?

My speculations were more curious than envious. Vicky's life-style was one I had little experience with and didn't particularly aspire to.

I also wasn't too sure what I thought of Vicky's brand of activism, which had received both good and bad press in recent years. Opponents had labeled it "NIMBYism"—an acronym for the phrase "not in
my back
yard." They claimed that NIMBYS displayed the ultimate in selfishness by lobbying—with such bodies as the Board of Permit Appeals and the Planning Commission—for rulings that made their neighborhoods financially off limits to those of lower economic brackets. They suspected a prime motivation behind such activism was the preservation of homeowners' property values. Certainly some attempts were blatant elitism—such as a recent referendum to block a low-cost-housing project for senior and handicapped citizens, because it would interfere with the neighbors' exclusive bay views.

On the other hand, neighborhood activists were avowedly on the side of a high quality of life. They were concerned with overcrowding, lack of parking spaces, preserving open space, and the ecological balance. They were against neighborhood merchants being forced out of business by big chains, and affordable housing being gobbled up by monster corporations or developers. And they were articulate, often vociferous, and seemed to turn up everywhere these days.

Now—as Vicky rattled around in the kitchen—I decided if she asked me, I would have to say I found myself sympathizing with the NIMBYS. As a homeowner, my little earthquake cottage was my only substantial asset, and when you're spending close to thirty percent of your gross income on mortgage payments, you don't want anything going on in your neighborhood that will devalue that asset, or make it not such a good place to live.

Still, I was uncomfortable enough with NIMBYism to have wriggled my way out of attending a block organizing meeting the week before. But that was true to form: in the sixties I'd done a lot of talking against the Vietnam War but very little protesting. Now I was merely hoping somebody else would protect my property values for me. I wasn't proud of myself in either instance, but I was self-aware enough to have little real hope of change.

Vicky came back clutching two big balloon wineglasses full of a pale pink liquid. "No white, we're out," she said. "Hope you don't mind a blush. It's something quite good, but I can't tell you what. Gerry could." She set mine down on the glass-topped table in front of the couch. I noticed smears around the lip of the goblet—probably those "unsightly spots" the dishwasher detergent commercials are always lamenting.

"Actually, I like blush," I said, "but it's a new term, and it always embarrasses me to ask for it." The pun was unintentional—as most of my best ones are. It didn't matter; it went right over Vicky's head. I suspected that, like many intense social reformers, she didn't have much of a sense of humor.

"I know what you mean," she said seriously, settling at the other end of the couch. I'd noticed before that when she was being earnest a deep set of wrinkles appeared between her eyebrows, and she screwed up her mouth so it resembled a withered rosebud. With her Alice-in-Wonderland hair and rounded, fuller face, it had seemed appropriate and charming; now with this straggly, greasy perm and new gauntness, she looked as if she were trying terribly hard to understand something but not succeeding all that well.

I sipped my wine. As she'd said, it was very good.

Vicky went on, "All these new things. New styles. Blush wine. The music—my kids play it. I don't even know who the singers are. Or why anybody would bother to listen to it. California cuisine. Is pasta salad still in, or has it gone out? Running? Eastern religions? The new sobriety—God, I just got used to cocaine. I don't know, I don't get out much anymore. At least not in what Gerry calls the right circles. And when we do, I don't know how to talk to those people. I mean, I'm trying to keep the corporations and that damned university from eating my neighborhood alive, and they're discussing exotic varieties of
lettuce
, for God's sake. Or is designer lettuce out too, now? Maybe that was last year…"

I knew how she felt. But unlike her, I didn't give a damn what was in or out, nor did I hang around with people who did.

Vicky set her glass down and reached for a carved ivory box on the table. She extracted a joint and said, "Do you smoke?"

"Not anymore. I guess my drug's alcohol."

"But you don't mind if I do?"

"Why should I?"

She nodded, giving me her terribly earnest look again, and lit up. "That's nice," she said, after inhaling and releasing the smoke slowly. "Nowadays everybody seems to mind—regardless of what it is you do. I can't help it, that's what I tell Gerry, with all this stuff going on and all the responsibility, I get so tense. There's this woman who works for me, she says I should take up a hobby, something peaceful that would give me a chance to be alone with my thoughts. But my thoughts—my God, if I think about everything that's going on, I just get so nervous."

She was making
me
nervous. I wondered if she'd always been like this, or if something had gone wrong in her life since I'd last seen her. At the All Souls functions she'd seemed hyper, but no more so than most of the people on our staff. She certainly hadn't seemed this jittery and ready to fly out of control.

I decided to ask my questions and get out of there. "Vicky," I said, "I need your help."

She let out smoke in a long breath. "Yes, sure. What is it?"

I explained in the way I'd planned: about Rudy Goldring's murder, the woman who had fled the scene, the license plate number of the car, and how I wanted to make sure the woman was all right. Vicky listened, nodding and sucking on her joint. When I'd finished, she'd finished it and dropped the roach in an ashtray.

"Sharon," she said, her voice more mellow now, "what can I tell you except what I told the cops? It's my car, and my license plate number, but I had a meeting of my steering committee for this thing against UC going right here in my living room the whole time. And the car was parked in the driveway."

I glanced through the glass wall; there was no driveway or car visible. "I don't understand how you could see it from here."

"I couldn't, but the garage is inside the compound, and cars can only enter or leave by the gate next to it. It's controlled by electronic openers, and only Gerry and I have them."

The woman I'd encountered at Rudy Goldring's hadn't looked like the criminal type, but I asked, "What if someone had come over the wall and used the opener—"

"No way. The wall is wired, the whole place is. Gerry insisted on a very good alarm system, and it's on all the time. He's very security conscious, Gerry. He even made me learn to shoot. We have a .22 in our bedroom; I hate it. But that's all because of the trouble we had with those damned squatters. Do you know they kept trying to sneak back in here for
two years
after we'd moved in—"

"Mom, we're back! Can we—"

"Betsy, honey!" Vicky twisted around toward the entryway, a look of pleasure wiping the earnest creases from her brow.

I turned, too. A girl of about ten stood there. She was tall for her age, but chunky. Her hair was blond and straight as Vicky's had been before she got her awful perm, but lopped off bluntly at her shoulders; her turned-up nose and heavily lashed eyes were Vicky's, too, but her jaw was strong and square— Gerry's? Yes, like Gerry's.

"Mom, listen," she said, "can Rina and Lindy and I make some popcorn?"

Vicky glanced toward the kitchen, as if she were afraid her daughter and her friends might mess it up. That, I thought, was probably impossible; given the state this room was in, Lord knew what chaos lurked behind that archway.

Vicky said, "Not right now, honey. I have company."

"But, Mom…"

"I said, not right now, honey."

"Mom, please— "

"No, dammit!" The vehemence of her reply surprised me. "No, you may not! I want you to go to your playroom, or the swings, or Rina's, or wherever, but just let me alone. I have a friend here, and I'm relaxing for once, and I don't want to be disturbed—by any of you. You make sure you tell Rina that. Am I making myself clear?"

Vicky had twisted all the way around and was looking intensely at Betsy. The little girl crossed her arms over her T-shirted chest and clutched her elbows.

"Am I making myself clear?" Vicky repeated.

"Yes ma'am." Betsy turned and ran out, slamming the door emphatically.

Vicky's face was flushed and she was breathing heavily. She twisted back to her former position, drew her legs up, and covered her eyes with her hands, elbows on her knees. "Jesus," she muttered, "what the fuck am I doing to my kids?"